


for the grunts and the screams we extract from each other

by hoars



Series: Strangeness and Charm [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe - Gypsy, England - Freeform, F/M, Ghouls, Lunatics, M/M, Magic, Ophiomancy, Tarot Cards, Werewolves, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:34:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoars/pseuds/hoars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't make sense for the lunatic to be eating people but biting others. All evidence but for the mass grave indicated the lunatic had been recruiting, building a pack, not finding a meat source. Werewolves, even lunatics, weren't prone to cannibalism.</p><p>“It's a true sign of madness.” Derek says, as if repeating something he’s heard a dozen times since he was a child. "The mark of the beast."</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the grunts and the screams we extract from each other

**Author's Note:**

> Um. Y'know that saying, "time is fluid?" Remember that. Really. When you have two characters that live in the future as much as the past, things are bound to be a little confusing for a few paragraphs.
> 
> Title is from Roger Bonair-Agard's "Your Bed is Too Small for Fucking and Poetry."

Stiles buries their dead under a trisklelion of basil and Scott and Derek go into the town, looking for clothes to allow Stiles to blend. The English wear drab colors, that any other day, Stiles would tease were like Derek’s usual, but today he is silent and changes from his reds and browns to the black and white. Derek and Scott watching solemnly as he folds the red clothing that has served as armor.

Stiles slips into town easily enough. He tells the people he is searching for his father, that his mother told him she used to live here when she was young. She hailed from Spain and found work at Lord Whittemore's estate and later had her son out of wedlock. The father unwilling to accept his responsibilities to a foreign girl forcing her from Ashwick to spare himself the embarrassment of a bastard child. The tavern wench is besotted by his story, and feeds him parts of her meal. “Wouldn’t it be grand if you were the bastard son of Lord Whittemore?”

She is a romantic and gossip and shares much with him until a man twisting his wedding band comes to her and she excuses herself with a wink.

He sits at the table, breathing slow. The information she’s shared with him makes him wonder if Fate is really so cruel as this, and he itches to take out his cards. He has so many questions, but he left his cards with Derek to resist temptation. He moves on to the men drinking in the corner, faces drawn tight and angry.

“Gypsies got away.” One man spits. “The beasts that came into town warned them off.”

“Don’t be so bitter, Acker.” One man laughs. “The hunters will find them soon enough and burn them all alive.”

“Too bad all the hunters have left.” Another man grunts. “Our problem existed before the Gypsies appeared.”

“They left their protégé.” The second man disagrees. “We will be fine.”

“You mean they left us with a girl.” Acker sneers. “How is a woman any use to us?”

“Besides the obvious?” The last man leers.

The rest of the tavern begins to weigh in on their conversation, and Stiles learns the hunter protégé is a French woman of high standing that is staying at Whittemore Hall. The previous week, Lord Whittemore invited the hunters to his estate in hopes they would find the beast that killed his wife and attacked his son.

To Stiles’ ears, it sounded as if the Whittemore son had been give the Bite.

He is eager to find Derek and Scott, to report what he’s learned. His skin is itching with the desire to seek Derek, to feel his warmth by his side and it will be Scott, he knows, that will be sent to Whittemore Hall to find if there are any truths in Stiles’ suspicions about the lordling. Scott’s huntress of a mate will be there, no doubt this protégé everyone speaks of. Fate constantly at work.

“Always assume the hunter is smarter than you.” Alpha Hale has advised. “If it looks like a trap, smells like trap and sounds like a trap, it is a trap.”

The hunters would be foolish not to use the Frenchwoman Scott knew to be his mate as bait. They knew Scott would be unable to leave the area. They were expecting a werewolf to be left in the area. For all Stiles knew, perhaps they too suspected the Whittemore son to be a werewolf now too. He would not assume anything at this point.

While Scott patrols Whittemore Hall, Stiles will find his comfort in Derek. He will take the warmth of his mouth and shudder the memories of death and terror away, lose his control with the touch of Derek’s body to his and be comforted for a short time. He can see it clearly in his mind and if he had his cards, they’d be revealing one by one exactly what he is thinking.

He leaves the tavern with a group of drunk and grumbling men.

“She’s there. Like you said she would be.” Scott says, his face ashen. “I overheard Lord Whittemore speaking to her. He called her Madame Allison Argent.”

“Argent?” Derek growls and Stiles feels his heart skip a beat. Never has he known Derek to be afraid, but that had the undertone of fear.

“What is it?” Stiles asks.

Derek is silent, his jaw flexing and unflexing, and Stiles reaches out to touch his shoulder, making Scott flinch. His werewolf calms the smallest bit, enough to tell Scott and he about the Argents. About how the Argents were the ones to drive his mother’s pack from Germany. How every pack they came across had horrors to share about the Argent family.

“That doesn’t sound good.” And his statement doesn’t even remotely cover what he means, but Scott understands. Scott is paler, sweat on his face.

“How can I be mated to a hunter? To an Argent?” The way he says Argent is the same Finstock said _lunatic_ and almost hysterically, Stiles wants to say Scott obviously modeled some of his behavior after the bear dancer. “Why would Fate do that to me?”

“Fate is cruel.” Stiles answers because she is. No one ever said she had to be kind to fulfill her role.

They need to develop a plan to find all of the lunatic’s bitten werewolves, avoid the huntress and kill the lunatic. Without sacrificing their own lives in the process. They spend a week in an abandoned barn, the owners dead within the last month. Just a few of the many of that have been found mauled to pieces across Ashwick. Even less had been found; although, it became hard to attribute who merely left the area or who was missing. Derek and Scott began alternating nights to watch Whittemore Hall and see if the lordling is growing fur and baying under the moon and tearing the townspeople apart in a fugue. Stiles spends hours reading his cards. The hay driving him to the outdoors and on the fifth night when at last the cards change.

They speak of an arrival that will sway the balance in their favor. A woman. A magic user like Stiles. If Stiles can speak to her, make her see their way, she could help them leave this cold and wet miserable place for good.

 “We found a bitten wolf.” Derek says, exhaustion driving him to Stiles’ side to curl around. Stiles’ magic licking at him and causing him to relax, the gold sigils appearing once again. _Protected_. “He was the gravedigger’s son. The gravedigger was mauled. The town thought the boy did it and had him contained. The gravedigger used to beat on his son. It was a reasonable conclusion.” Derek shrugs and presses his face into Stiles’ stomach, Stiles’ fingers combing the dark strands as his mind processes the information and what it’ll change for them.

“Will he be released?” Stiles asks thoughtfully.

Derek breathes heavily, his breath hot against his skin. “Perhaps if a doctor swears the body was attacked by an animal. Perhaps lay the rightful blame on the lunatic.”

Stiles nods and encourages Derek to sleep. His deck is in his pocket and he pulls it out, shuffling the cards with a little difficulty and laying five on Derek’s back.

The gravedigger’s son will help them in their endeavors, and there will be a very good reason for the doctor to stake his reputation on claiming the gravedigger’s death an animal attack. Maybe put blame on the feral dogs that have recently began prowling around the barn. Stiles smirks.

“Trust me, Scott.” Stiles says, pushing his friend with both hands. “This will work.”

“If I die, I will come back and tell _everyone_.” Scott hisses but he goes. Ducking his chin close to his body to hide his face behind his nicked coat’s collar. “Including my mother.”

“How do you know it will work?” Derek asks gravely as they watch Scott scurry away.

“The doctor’s daughter was attacked the same night.” Stiles explains. “If it was a boy killing his father, then it was not a beast and none would have reason to assume the doctor’s daughter not being human any longer.”

“He will want help with his daughter.” Derek says and the approval is clear in his eyes. “Clever.”

“I work with what I have,” Stiles grins but his magic causes the sigils on Derek to glow gold, pleased. “My cards say there is one more. I don’t know where.” He shook his head.

“We will find him.” Derek promises. “But tonight, I’ll search for the lunatic.” He glares and his voice grows stern. “You will stay here where I know you’re safe.”

“I make no promises.” Stiles smiles, his eyes alive with gold.

Stiles is back in town, the cards urging him to be, while Derek and Scott train the two new werewolves. The town is a trickle of life; optimism is slowly creeping back. The hope that had began to infect the town turned poison when the mass grave in the bog was discovered.

The grave was strange. Completely odd. Lunatics weren’t men anymore but pure beast. The lunatic wouldn’t have bothered to bury his victims in a grave, but would leave their corpses in the middle of town or the woodlands to be found. But what else could they attribute the grave to? Surely there was only one monster preying on this town. Ashwick was not London. There was no reason for Ashwick to have such terrible luck as to have two predators hunting them.

Maybe the townpeople figure the beast has found a better hunting ground. Stiles doesn’t know, only that their optimism had been too soon. The people's emotions high and angry as a result. The constant circling of Scott and Derek’s was confusing the lunatic and last night, when he attempted to venture into town, Derek rammed into him as a gorgeous wolf, snarling and throwing him back into the woods, Scott quickly leaving Stiles’ side to aid Derek.

Stiles spots the woman that will change everything atop a horse.

Her dress is dark green and her redhead hair is pinned high with a tiny hat and veil over once side of her face. She is dressed richly and comes from the city, London most like, and when their eyes meet, it’s like staring into a reflection, her eyes twisting with the same power that twists his own.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” The butcher’s son says from behind him.

“Very,” Stiles answers honestly. “Who is she?”

“Ah, the lordling’s wife to be, Miss Lydia Martin. Her father owns a trading company in London.” The butcher boy shares and Stiles can’t hide his smile, knowing how all this will unfold.

“What a lovely match,” Stiles says, mostly to himself.

Magic users, he’s beginning to think, are fated to walk alongside werewolves, werewolves in the magic users’ shadows.

She meets him on a bridge that used to go somewhere after night has fallen and he’s seen Derek and Scott and the newest werewolves off to Whittemore Hall to spy on the lordling and huntress. She sits herself besides him, her clothes decadent and blue and black. Her hair is released from its pins and it blows all over in the wind, the wind catching fire.

“I will convince him to meet your werewolf. To learn about himself.” She says. “We will be married in two weeks. He will come with me to London.”

“And if his heart is too dark to bear the weight of the wolf?” Stiles asks because he has read that path in the cards too.

“Then I will kill him myself.” She says with a slight smile. “My kind have ways to destroy his.”

Stiles is curious. The _chovihano_ and the shamans Deaton was descended from were servants of Fate, to protect and guide the supernatural beings like Derek and Scott. Not hunt them and kill them. That was the job of hunters. “How?”

“Promise me Jackson will be allowed to come to London with me.” Her green eyes twist, come alive again. A hint of the power at her call. “And I will tell you.”

Stiles rests a hand on his deck, feels the burn of them and smirks at her, sudden. “I can’t promise you such things. Not without my alpha’s permission. Not without learning of something of value, _witch_. The secrets of wolfsbane were ours before they were yours.”

She narrows her eyes, obviously reassessing her opinion of him. She clicks her tongue. “You’re a Gypsy. The snake scales didn’t reveal that.”

He flashes his teeth at her in a smile. “Then you were not asking the right questions, witch.”

He leaves her on the bridge, already knowing they will meet again in a week. Stiles doesn’t know what she learned from him, but he learned plenty from her. Enough to know this Jackson will be clinging to the wisps of his control on the full moon and will find _them_.

Scott finds the third bitten wolf the next morning.

A dark skinned man that is the apprentice of the butcher. He has large arms and even Derek seems impressed by the strength of his frame. “Things are looking better for us.” Derek admits. “The lunatic, he is growing brave again. It is only a matter of time before he attacks the town again.”

The three new werewolves are a collection of fearful people who have the extreme basic of remaining calm so as not to bring the change upon their heads and be killed by the townspeople. They are fearful to shift forms and it is only Derek’s glare and Scott’s insistence that pushes them to change. Stiles watches them often, his elbows on his knees, thinking about where the lunatic must be hiding.

The marshland would be ideal, he knows. The water and overwhelming smell making it impossible for Derek and Scott to sense the other werewolf, but it seems unlikely. Like there is a piece of information that he doesn’t know and is in desperate need of. It doesn’t make sense for the lunatic to be _eating_ people but biting others. All evidence but for the mass grave indicated the lunatic had been recruiting, building a pack, not finding a meat source. Werewolves, even lunatics, weren’t prone to cannibalism.

“It's a true sign of madness.” Derek says, as if repeating something he’s heard a dozen times since he was a child. "The mark of the beast."

Miss Martin comes to see him in the barn, an adder wrapped around her forearm. She is pale and shoves the snake under his nose like Stiles will know what do with it.

“Who trained you?” He asks, confused. “All _chovihano_ have different ways of seeing the future. I’ve never used snake scales. I doubt they’d tell me anything.”

He can see her twist before she snaps, “I was trained by my mother’s coven. We all learn how to read using snakes.”

It’s strange, but if the witches wish to stunt themselves, then Stiles will not complain. Witches, his cards tell him, do not serve Fate as the _chovihano_ or shamans do. They do not protect the balance of the world. _Witches pick sides_. He’s considered what side Miss Martin is on, his cards revealing Two of Cups time and time again, but he cannot believe it is that simple. That this witch as powerful and intelligent as she is would oppose a huntress and the Argent family for love. Stiles has seen her past, seen her ruthlessness and her coven’s cold-heartedness.

Witches _scorn_ love.

“What do his scales say?” Stiles asks because she would not be here in a flurry if it was not something important.

“Jackson will die.” She says furiously. “I refuse to allow him to die. I will kill Allison Argent myself if I have to.” Stiles sets out his cards in another pattern, three cards and winces. If Miss Martin was to kill Madame Argent, the Argent family would come after Miss Martin and her coven and burn them all until the skies of London are black with smoke.

“I would advise against that.” Stiles shakes his head. “I’ve spoken to my alpha—“

“We both know it is you who makes the decisions, not your werewolf.” Miss Martin interrupts and Stiles smiles and shrugs.

“If Jackson joins our pack, he will be stronger.” Stiles shuffles his cards again and Miss Martin focuses on the adder that is twisting into a new position on her forearm. “Perhaps strong enough to survive any threats against his life.” A seven card pattern. Stiles bites his lip staring at it, confused because he’s missing something. Where two cards should be, there are none. Only five cards present in a seven card spread.

“There is a force blocking you as well then.” Miss Martin says tightly. “Dracul’s scales have flaked where he’d tell me about my enemy. It is not just the huntress or mad werewolf. There is something else. Someone else.”

Stiles presses his lips together, grim. Magic can be blocked, but the future shouldn’t be hidden from them. There were too many possibilities for someone to block the future completely. It was as if someone who didn’t live, didn’t have a Path, was interacting with the living.

There’s a thought there. Niggling. He’s heard of stories of blood drinkers – “Unfounded as far as I am aware.” Deaton had laughed. “I imagine a creature that cannot survive in sunlight would perish quickly.” – that were undead and that was –

“You think someone has been brought back from the dead.” Miss Martin breathes. “Someone forced outside of the Pattern. Unseen to us.” They are both grim. Afraid. Stiles can see it clearly as the witch must because she breathes a quick puff air sharply. “Jackson will join your werewolf’s pack.” And she leaves the barn, minutes before Derek and Scott come back.

Derek inhales sharply, his eyes gaining their red glow. “Who was here?” He comes to settle next to Stiles, resting a heavy hand on Stiles’ neck that Stiles can’t help but relax into. His magic settling back into his body, satisfied by the heat Derek’s close presence brings, chasing the chill of fear and disgust away.

Dead things should stay dead. To be brought back, to go against nature itself... He leans heavily into Derek, the werewolf easily taking his weight with a nose to Stiles’ ear.

“An ally.” Stiles smiles. “Maybe you’ve seen her? A beautiful witch with red hair that has been staying at Whittemore Hall.”

“Wait! Miss Martin is a witch?” Scott bursts. “But she’s! She’s friends with the huntress! I’ve seen them together at all hours of the day when Jackson turns her away!”

“Really?” Stiles asks, smirking.

Derek sighs, “He is only of use when he’s watching the huntress. If he says Miss Martin spends ample time with Argent, then she does.”

“Yes, but is she Madame Argent’s friend or is she directing her attention away from her werewolf fiancée?” Stiles asks slyly.

Derek stills at his side before leaning heavily against Stiles. “Magic makes you all damnably clever.”

“Wait! Is the witch going to kill Miss Argent?” Scott asks in a panic.

Stiles gives his close friend an odd look. Derek grumbles and shifts around Stiles, clearly intending to sleep. “Another bad habit of his concerning the Argent.”

“You remember this is the woman that separated our families, correct?”

“I know.” Scott mumbles. “But it doesn’t mean I want to see her die.” He perks up. “I don’t mind if we injury her. Just that she lives.”

Stiles laughs at his friend and at the angry huff of air he can feel Derek press into his side.

Stiles has never seen Madame Allison Argent, until she walks into the tavern he’s been playing his card games to win coin for food. Never try to out trick a _Roma_ , he thinks, shuffling the cards with a grin.

She’s wearing an uncomplicated dress with a high collar and tight cuffs at the wrists. She has the seasoned eyes of a warrior, eyes like Derek and the werewolves that used to travel with his people, and he wonders if she has a warrior’s scars as well and that is why she hides every sliver of skin. Her hair is in a low knot and shows her pretty face. Stiles looks his fill and then turns back to the card game, keeping a loose sense of her in his mind. No wonder Scott lost control the first time he laid eyes on her and his senses.

Fate is cruel, but everything is as it is meant to be for a reason.

He excuses himself from the game as she is about to leave. “Uh, excuse me, miss?” He taps on her shoulder and she tenses, and he can see how desperately she wants to put a knife through his hand and takes note to not touch her again unless she can see him coming. “I’m sorry.” He smiles, bashfully. “But you are residing at Whittemore Hall, yes?”

“Yes.” Her voice is lightly accented with her mother tongue and he wonders if she misses hearing people speaking French how he misses hearing _Romani_. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Well, Miss, you aren’t going to believe me, but please, hear me out.”

He tells her a story, about how his friend is searching for his father, and his mother had told him he was the bastard son of Lord Whittemore. He makes the story grand. He tells her how his friend’s mother was on her death bed when she revealed her secret, how his friend was intent on informing Lord Whittemore of his existence and his mother’s death and leaving England once and for all, cutting all his ties with plans to find his mother’s family in Spain.

It used to be a Path for Scott, once. Before he received the Bite.

Madame Argent is charmed and tells Stiles about Lord Whittemore.

“A good con,” his father used to click his tongue. “Isn’t about convincing your target to trust you, it’s about giving them every reason to want to. People want to see the good in others. You give someone all the reasons, they will.”

And Madame Argent loves the romantic tale Stiles tells her. He can see it in how her eyes warm, see it in her sweet smile and in the information that is more than generous. She tells him about Lord Whittemore.

How the man has been grieving night and day for his wife. How he can barely look at his son. She tells him about the man’s character and Stiles is glad Scott is completely Miss Melissa’s son. This lord did not sound like his friend in any aspect except for perhaps his stubbornness, but Stiles has been witness to Miss Melissa’s arguments with Maleva. Scott could have gotten it from either parent.

“Thank, miss. You have been a huge help.” He smiles at her and bows his head. “You are very kind.”

She takes her leave and he watches her and her horse travel back to Whittemore Hall, until they are specks in the distance. He goes back to the abandoned barn. Derek and Scott are training Miss Erica, Isaac and Boyd for a confrontation with the lunatic in the marshland. They are slowly getting better and no one should be at the barn.

Except for Miss Lydia.

“Jackson has begun his training with your werewolves.” She greets. “Dracul has revealed they will defeat the beast together. Allison will have no reason to linger here if there is no beast and we all leave here.”

“I need Scott or Derek in Whittemore Hall.” Stiles says plainly. “Jackson is too inexperienced to tell if there is something amiss.”

She tilts her head, quizzically. “You suspect Jackson’s father. Why?”

Stiles runs his finger along the edge of the Emperor, an old anger touching in his heart. “I have my reasons for suspecting something amiss about the man.”

Madame Argent has seen Scott’s face before. Knows him to be a werewolf. It’s why when Jackson sneaks him onto his family grounds, Lydia has taken Madame Argent riding. Jackson doesn’t know the reason why, just that Scott is searching for something. Stiles’ cards still curiously blank.

“Leave the cards.” Derek whispers. “Just for a little. Scott will be fine. He has Isaac to cover his back.”

Stiles puts the deck down. When he touches Derek’s skin, the gold sigils appear once more. Derek shivers lightly under his hands and Stiles’ eyes become gold, burning with want and power. “I have missed you.” Stiles secedes.

They’ve done this other times since the first time. Amongst the _Roma_ and werewolves everyone was aware of their relationship, the kind it was. His father and Scott were always scarce during the days, if they so chose to have time alone. They even turned a blind eye to Derek spending the night as long he did so as a wolf. The other _Roma_ were the same. They respected Stiles and his status. They were in awe of Derek. No one was unkind to them. Amongst strangers, they are more cautious. Have to be.

Men like them are not treated well. Beaten and killed. Outcasted. Forced to live on the fringes of society.

It makes Stiles yearn for home.

“Do not think.” Derek orders softly.

The kiss is slow. Full of the things like promises, magic and heat. Stiles has four lined scars on his left shoulder from the last time when Derek’s claws split his skin. It had been the barest of scratches and yet, the scars persisted, the color of pale moonlight. Derek’s mark on Stiles. In the unhurried moments where they can exist, Derek kisses them, follows each line with his tongue.

It smells like hay, his humor makes him wonder if the younger werewolves will be able to scent sex under the hay. Itchy and hot, like any moment Derek and Stiles will cause it to light in flames.

Scott comes back, his face pale and breathless and Derek is aware, much more aware than he usually is after they’ve done this, had time to themselves, and tenses. He lets go of Stiles and stands up, uncaring of his nudity like he always is.

“Scott. What is it?” Derek demands and Stiles scrambles for his deck.

He can feel the pull of the cards. Images are flashing before his eyes, but without his deck they are senseless to him. Too much at once with no context. His skin is sweat sticky and he’s growing cold from the English air, but he pulls card after card to form a picture.

“Lord Whittemore keeps a dead thing in his bed.” Scott says horrified. “A woman in a black gown with a veil. She’s rotting and yet she moves. Derek, Stiles, what devil – I don’t understand. Is this the evil that blights this land? Calls the lunatic here?”

“The lunatic killed Lady Whittemore.” Stiles shakes his head and flips another card. “But perhaps he stays because of her?”

Stiles finds no answers why Lady Whittemore is not experiencing a restful death, even after Derek tugs on clothes and leaves their little haven to confirm Scott’s observations. Usually Stiles’ magic allows him to pick up every nuisance, the slightest breeze to ruffle Derek’s hair, yet Derek remains unseen to his eye and deck.

He’s staring at the water under the bridge, Derek and the others hunting in earnest for the lunatic. They, Scott, Derek and he, are eager to leave Ashwick. He can hear their howls, their song to each other in the marshland ever present in Stiles’ ears.

They decide to keep Jackson unaware about his lady mother. He was too unpredictable as it was, especially with the witch as his guiding force. Lady Whittemore’s past was completely blocked from Stiles and he was unsure of mother and son’s relationship. He didn’t know if they had been troubled or if Jackson had loved his mother tenderly. Stiles wasn’t willing to risk the lives of his people, of Scott and _Derek_ , on the lordling’s ability to disassociate his mother with the dead thing taking space in his family estate.

The corpse was feasting on the townspeople of Ashwick. It had been Isaac to make the distinction between servant and the harvested bodies, much like the bodies found in the mass grave a week and half prior. “Someone is feeding it?” Erica had asked, her face pale and ill.

Lydia sits besides him as his thoughts chase each other as he knew she would.

“You have five days to end this.” She greets. “Jackson and I leave for London then.”

“Should be possible.” Stiles nods, distant, trying to think of the bones of a plan. “What do you know of death walkers?”

Lydia becomes serious and grave. “How do you mean? What did Scott discover?”

“The corpse of Lady Whittemore is animated and eating human flesh.”

“A ghoul?” Lydia asks, horror in her voice. Stiles watches as she lifted her dress sleeve to reveal Dracul. “Gods say it isn’t so.” She squeezes her eyes shut tightly.

“Not good?” Stiles asks.

“A ghoul, Gypsy, eats the flesh of the living. This place has two monsters preying on it.” Lydia snaps. “Dead things are meant to stay dead. To go against the Pattern—“ She breaks off, her hands shaking. “We must act quickly.”

“Tell me, witch, how does Madame Argent feel about collateral damage?” Stiles asks with grim smile.

He splays his cards and Lydia looks close at Dracul’s scales.

“That will work.” Lydia says firmly. “It must.”

The plan is simple. They’re going to give Madame Argent what she wants. Scott beings to show his face in town, some of the locals hissing in recognition. _“But what if I’m recognized?” Scott asked, terrified._

_“That’s the idea.” Derek said flatly. “To draw Argent out.”_

The cards tell Stiles Madame Argent has wounded Scott and that he still runs, keeping to the plan. He sends a prayer into the wind for Scott and _believes_ with the conviction of his people and their bloodline that everyone he cares for will survive this wretched night.

_“You’ll be fine.” Stiles dismissed. “When she starts to shoot you full of arrows, go through the marshland. Isaac will meet you there.”_

The cards tell him Isaac is helping Scott lick his wounds clean, quick and frantic so they can run towards Whittemore Hall. At least they have stopped the blood loss. Stiles’ cards continue to tell him how Isaac and Scott’s desperate whines draw Madame Argent and her horse ever closer. Her arrows missing vital areas by centimeters.

_“And then howl.” Erica asked dubious. “How will that call the lunatic to us?”_

Erica smells Scott’s blood before she can hear their hearts or panting and throws her head back until her entire face is soaking in the starlight and howls a song of fear and need. Scott and Isaac join her, their howls edging into breathless while hers remains clear and strong.

_“Because.” Derek said, tired of their questioning._

_Stiles resisted rolling his eyes. “The lunatic is blood kin to the Hales. He will answer your calls.” Derek huffed and butted his head gently against Stiles’._

The lunatic rises  from his slumber, ears pricking at the howls of Pack, kin and danger. He listens intently, hearing the distant whines and whimpers of Pack, _his Pack_ , being injured before roaring his answer, his vengeance. A hunter dares trespass upon his territory? He will rip him apart.

_“Boyd, you’ll be with Jackson at the estate. Make sure the gates are open.”_

Boyd’s strength is something to be envious of. He pulls the gates open by himself. Jackson, the cards show, pouring the gaslight fluid everywhere in the house, keeping an ear on his fiancée’s heart.

_“And where will you be?” Scott asked Stiles._

_Derek’s mouth turned angry, his body tense and displeased._

_“Helping the witch.” Derek snarled._

Stiles helps Lydia speak the spells, forcing the ghoul from this realm, undoing the magic Lord Whittemore had done. It will take the two of them, their power near blinding, their chanting rapid and familiar only to ears long dead. The ghoul shrieks, trying to break the circle of salt they have her trapped in.

Scott, Isaac and Erica reach the estate, Argent hot on their heels as she rides her horse to death. The lunatic bounding towards the estate but being deterred at just as he reaches the gate surrounding Whittemore Hall. Derek ramming his body into that of the completely black furred alpha lunatic that looks more like a monster than a wolf. Derek snarls, his fur white and gray.

Lydia and Stiles block it out the images out.

They have to trust the werewolves. That they will remain safe and keep _them_ safe. They can’t afford distractions. Not now. A ghoul, something dead, is dangerous. Both of them have to keep their eyes trained on the former Lady Whittemore.

She snarls and gnashes her teeth at them, lunging for them, but the circle of sea salt Lydia put around her keeps them from the ghoul’s hunger. Their Latin is ebbing and flowing, the corpse throwing itself at the shield of salt over and over as her veins begin to blacken, pulling her skin from her body.

“No! Rebecca!” Lord Whittemore shouts from the doorway. “Stop! Get away from her!”

Stiles doesn’t look away from Lydia’s emerald eyes. He trusts, he believes. He can’t look away or the ghoul will be upon them, devouring all the flesh of England.

The man is rushing into the room they’ve contained the ghoul, reaching for Stiles, or perhaps Lydia, when Scott and Erica appear. Stiles’ voice is going hoarse from the spell, the Latin hard on his throat when Scott snarls and grabs the lord with his claws and hauls him out of the room.

Wildly, Stiles wonders if Scott knows. If he can tell who Lord Whittemore is. Who he is to Miss Melissa and to Scott and what he’s done. It doesn’t matter to Erica if Scott does know. She helps Scott, grabs Whittemore by his other side, her claws deep in his flesh as they pull the man to his death.

“Rebecca! Unhand me beasts!” Whittemore roars.

Stiles wants to shout a warning to Scott, knows Whittemore’s eyes have gone black by the ice in the air, but the ghoul is crumbling, melting down onto herself and he can’t stop chanting, even to help a friend. Lydia’s face shows no sign of Stiles’ emotional battles.

_“Witches have no use for sentimentality.” She said when he met her at the top of stairs, his clothing red and protected, back in his armor. “I am as I am. Do not mistake my determination tonight as betrayal. My heart is only big enough for one.”_

Erica is thrown back, her claws taking pieces of his muscle with her, and she slams into the far wall. Jackson snarls loudly, and Stiles can see Lydia’s emerald eyes leave his, looking for the source of the sound before just as quickly returning her full concentration to the spell. Scott roars, deafening. He breaks the lord’s spine, grabs it and jerks it out of alignment and yet Whittemore still stands, broken and black magic powering him.

The ghoul, she is dying. Her master evolving into evil.

_“Scott,” Stiles said. “Kill him. Trust me. He is an evil man and deserves more than a quick death.”_

Scott tears the man’s head from his shoulders before the black magic can complete its course. Before it can make killing the man impossible. Stiles can smell smoke as Jackson release flames into the pools of gaslight.

Scott howls.

Stiles pants, his throat sore and Lydia’s eyes half-closed with sweat heavy hair in her face and counts the howls of his pack. Erica, Isaac, Jackson, Boyd, Derek and --

 _another_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Two of Cups -- Love, marriage, a bond, a relationship  
> The Emperor -- Authority, leadership, strength, structure.


End file.
